


A Night in Cartagena (Sam Drake & Harry Flynn)

by remyroth



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Sam Drake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remyroth/pseuds/remyroth
Summary: Samuel Drake and his brother had recently found solace in Cartagena with their new identities. The older Drake naturally found himself enamoured with thievery, one night scheming to rob a museum, only to be interrupted by the shortcomings of a British boy at gunpoint.
Kudos: 2





	A Night in Cartagena (Sam Drake & Harry Flynn)

Fortunately for Samuel Drake, the liveliness of the festival captured the attention of Cartagena’s inhabitants. All light and energy gravitated toward the square, leaving the museum dark and abandoned. Sam finished fiddling through his satchel for his belongings and waltzed down the dark cobblestone alley in celebration. It wasn’t often that the circumstances were so favourable. 

Somewhere in the orchestra of distant laughter and music came sounds of aggression. As he neared the street corner, Sam heard a confrontation, the event slightly souring his joy. Led by his hand trailing the rusticated wall, he peered around the edge at the event intervening his path. Down the street, dimly lit by a distant lamppost, a group of thugs surrounded a younger man on his knees. One held him at gunpoint.

“…well there’s no point in trying to reason with me,” the young man said, now coming within Sam’s earshot. “I can’t understand a bloody word you’re saying.”

The man facing him, assumably the leader, hesitated, speaking indiscernibly to his group. 

“Perhaps this will resonate with you more. You stole from Javier, and now you’re going to pay the price.”

Sam remained still, partly entranced by the scene, partly nauseated. The younger man had a British accent and a boyish face. 

“Ah! You can speak English,” the boy acknowledged with arrogance, eyeing the barrel of the gun intently. Sam knew that this British thief would require the meticulous use of language to save his skin. There was no way that he could physically evade a group of four in possession of the upper hand.

“Watch your tongue. Your options are becoming narrow.”

“And what exactly are my options, then?”

“You either die here, or you return what belongs to Javier with considerable interest.”

“Well now, we both know you’re going to do both.”

Sam quietly approached the other end of the street, striding through the darkness in order to get a closer look. His focus remained on the progressing scene, and in identification, he tried to conjure a plan for himself. Would he intervene? How could he do so without endangering his own life?

The young thief risked being caught by furthering himself along the rusticated walls that approached the scene. His step lost friction atop an unlit collection of rocks and broken cobblestone, forcing a silent gasp and a hot rush of cortisol. His hand fiercely grasping on the wall, he looked up at the confrontation to see that none of them had noticed, relief alleviating his tension. Although this did come with a feeling of doubt and reconsideration. The museum was only two blocks westward of the street, and only isolated for so long.

There was a sound of violence in reality that shook Sam out of his thoughts. The boy had been hit in the face with the leader’s pistol, and having lost his balance, was limp on the street. Sam winced in mutual discomfort, seemingly having projected himself upon the situation. The boy had returned himself to his knees, struggling to keep his face titled upward, a glowing red in his cheeks. His face was so angular that it seemed too fragile to be hit without serious damage. Sam moved his foot and looked down to one of the rocks that had startled him moments ago, an idea forming.

The man had outstretched his arm with the pistol against the boy’s forehead, the seriousness of the event appearing to dawn on him. Sam realized that this was the finale of the boy’s encounter and gripped the stone in his hand with wavering optimism. If the boy were anything like Samuel, then he would know precisely what to do.

The men all turned in alarm to locate the abrupt sound of a windowpane shattering across the street. Sam felt the euphoric delight of accuracy and relief overcome him as his arm returned to his side, now permitting him to view the boy’s escape.

The boy registered immediately and grabbed the leader’s weapon, twisting it away and acquiring it. The leader turned back in outrage, soon after being hit in the face with the barrel. The other men lunged out to grab him as the leader stumbled backwards. Sam hadn’t even noticed it, but a subconscious instinct had led him toward the encounter in spirit of rescue. 

As the three men overpowered the thief, Samuel used all his strength to ram his shoulder into one of them, disabling the triad. It was at this point that the boy and Sam had seen one another, entering the latter into the narrative. 

“Go!” Sam directed, believing it was the only opportunity for escape. Without hesitance the boy obeyed, and the two scurried out of the lamplight, turning a corner to evade any gunfire. The period in which their backs were exposed felt too long to Sam. The two appeared to share a mutual familiarity with the turns of the city, knowing which shortcuts to take and how to avoid being seen. After a few minutes of running, they found solace, coincidentally, near the museum.

“Fuck me,” Sam wheezed faintly, bending over, the taste of saliva overwhelming him. His heart was pounding uncontrollably. The British boy chuckled in a hysterical disbelieving way.

“I can’t believe that happened.”

“You alright?” Sam asked through inhales.

“Yeah, just a little out of breath.”

“Think they’ll find us?” Sam inquired anxiously, eyeing his surroundings. The street was dark, as all were in the city.

The boy took a deep breath, his hands on his hips, observing the same surroundings. “Not in there,” he concluded, referring to the museum. The two young men looked at each other and shared an epiphany, both grinning. 

“Something tells me you know how to get in,” the boy smiled curiously.

“I know a thing or two about this city,” Sam responded nonchalantly. “Here, this way.”

The two found themselves on the balcony of the museum, with only a thin wall and glass doors separating them from the artifacts. The bannister concealed them from the street below. Sam turned to his contract partner seated next to him. 

“What’s your name, by the way?”

He visually hesitated but followed through with confidence. “Harry Flynn.”


End file.
